Amegwoi
by Zaedah
Summary: The ancient music of the ocean will survive the teething and hunger cries. **Companion piece to The Estrogen Complex**


**Amegwoi**

_As ocean shells, when taken_

_From Ocean's bed, will faithfully repeat_

_her ancient music sweet --_

_Ev'n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken!_

_Elisabeth Barrett-Browning_

* * *

Opposing forces share a coin, each remaining secluded on its own side. Collisions are rare and never a draw. Of the two contrasting elements, water is the better half of fire; as an older sister first to be found. Given equal measure of both, the liquid will extinguish the flame every time. However, having a disproportionate quantity of one tends to play in the majority's favor.

Exceptions are her specialty.

She is of the opinion that her distinct brand of fire, being entirely uncommon and perhaps unworldly, breaks the elemental rule. Less an element, in fact, and more a force of unique properties. The sparks crackling just under pale mortal skin are not tamed by a mere coupling of oxygen and hydrogen. Her genetic components, the source of ostracism among the typical human fare, take dominion over any disguise water may wear. Once the flames escape her grasp, no element on earth can douse them.

Still, floating weightless in a green-tinted ocean, gaze set to roaming clouds, she feels safer for the liquid. Its song is the lullaby to calm prenatal worries. Safe was once a sensation as foreign as control. Possessing both had come in times too recent to label 'the past.' The summoning, discharge and reclamation of her body's blaze remains a surprise each time it obeys her command. This was the control for which she whispered prayers from within white walls. The pleading with an unknown God lived behind every breath, festered inside each mistake. And security arrived on equally fervent heavenly petitions. The answer, as happens through some majestic sense of humor, came with a gentle red hand which frequently reaching out for her protruding belly.

That hand and the massive body attached now looks on from the shoreline, doubtlessly confused by her recent fascination with the watery expanse. There are some things that refuse verbal explanation. He doesn't ask when she hums while strolling to the small cliff's edge, picking the spot where she will enter and lay her body into the ocean's cradle. The rocking sway welcomes her back with a mother's greeting. The ruby shade of her love stands stark against the faded greens of the hillside they'd made their home.

She leaves him behind. He doesn't mind.

He keeps watch. She doesn't mind.

Boulders known to rise at a whistle's call lay behind him to form a rough fence marking their territory. He finds them interesting, a touchstone reminder of his beloved father's story of the sleeping place of an indestructible army. She catches the smile when he pats a rock in passing; always with his right hand as though connecting with kin. For the sake of that smile, she's devised a daily path that carries them past the knee or arm boulder. Red stone meets tan in a familial, almost comparative way. His solid fingers brush the weather-worn surface of Bethmoora's entrance with near reverence and her skin revels in intimate knowledge of how such contact feels. He'll refresh her memory later.

Their claim to the property that mars the otherwise untouched landscape is based solely on presence. A lack of neighbors means no voices to contest their right. As pioneers, the lines of their boundaries were drawn, a small quadrant sufficient for a growing family. In the wee hours, postulations are made on the ways their children might use the natural wonders here in their games. In hide and seek, will they hide behind the gateway's left shoulder or lie flat in a gully? Will they take turns rolling down the hill that's loosely packed with rich, perfumed soil or stick to the grassy mounds? Such thoughts are always followed by concern and steps had to be taken to protect their babies. Relics have been employed to shield the area from the monsters even this distant land might produce. Bureau friends have spirited away certain technological aids; motion detectors coupled with cameras turned their outwardly unassuming cottage into an advanced base. The offspring of a human-demon union will surely have characteristics others may fear or worse; covet. Like any devoted mother, she'd prefer to see danger coming. Still, the bureau and all of its inherent chaos are as far as another planet, even as its devices are checked with routine diligence.

The clouds have shifted on the breeze, angling just south of her line of sight. The waves coax her to stay even as the sky shrugs on a new coat of colors. A hint of orange is creeping into view and a reluctant swim back to land is begun. It was quite a task, retraining her body to cut gracefully through the water while carrying a basketball in her stomach. Perhaps they swim in their fluid in time with her strokes. Red used to laugh at her awkward limbs, but once she perfected the movement, her audience had declared pleasure in watching her approach and emergence. The clinging wet bathing suit might have something to do with it. He's never made her feel self conscious about the obvious extra stretching of fabric, highlighting the bulk sitting low on her small frame. Two boys, he's decided, citing some old wives tale she thinks he's remembering wrong. Her soft rebuke that health should be the sole concern is hypocritical. A bizarre amount of room planning has occupied the ticking-clock moments of insomnia; yellow the newly designated color of the twin's room. To match his eyes, she teases. And then wonders if the children will share that shade. Their potential features are a subject of mental debate that never reaches the verbal. They don't speak of white and red mingling into unnatural pink.

Lying in bed as twilight wraps the land in hush, they listen to the waves. Tiny snores and gurgles will soon add audible furnishing to the quiet space. He chuckles at her eagerness to hear these noises, playfully mourning the break in the silence they now enjoy. The ancient music of the ocean will survive the teething and hunger cries.

And when the life-water that cushions her babies arrives in a gush on the mattress, she tells him they may learn to swim before crawling.


End file.
